A Quiet Undoing
by LoxFox
Summary: AU in which Cato wins the 74th Hunger Games. Then the repurcussions on those involved, the rioting and the birth of a rebellion. Featuring Cato, Gale, Prim, District 13, PTSD and emotional trauma, the Quarter Quell and the Capitol's power games- how a united Panem broke their chains and rose anew. Borderline M rating, as later on, things get pretty dark.
1. Chapter 1: Starless

A/N: I've combined the book and movieverses, because a bit of both makes it easier for everyone to understand but lets me put in stuff from the books too. Also TW for this bit; it's the Games, so people are gon' die. Also note the 'AU' bit, so say goodbye to your favourite characters.

**ARENA 74, Location classified**

Ragged breaths tore through the night; he was hyperventilating as the dogs closed in.

They were bigger than him- he couldn't say that about a lot of things in the arena- and they were gaining rapidly. Salivating, snarling, each brutish creature easily weighing a hundred and fifty pounds, all of it tightly-packed muscle, and thundering towards him like a storm rolling in. He hadn't had the time to look behind him to count the number of the animals that were pursuing him, but there were at least four, and that amount was growing with every precious moment that he wasted.

Cato was all-out sprinting now, the threat of his imminent demise quite literally snapping at his heels and driving him further into the arena, closer to the Cornucopia, closer to that attention-seeking bitch and her pathetic little shit of a district partner. If anything, it made him push himself even harder. He was not going to lose this one to twelve. His family would disown him. His district would ridicule him. They'd put his picture up in the career academy, a shining commemoration, a memorial to the fallen, a reminder of the dishonour that Cato Ramirez had brought them; a manky old thing for the future trainees to spit on and deface. That was not a fitting legacy.

And so he ran.

The dog at the head, a lean-looking, mean thing with Marvel's hate-filled, amber eyes, suddenly snapped, leaping on him and dragging him down. Impulsively, he hit out with his sword, stabbing the blade into the creature's throat and twisting the hilt. The jagged wound opened up, and the beast went down, gargling blood from the hole in its neck, matting into the fur as the creature fell back to die. Alpha, he'd noticed, the number '1' etched into its flank. Maybe because- shit, there was no time to speculate.

Reflexes snapping him back up as SixM lunged for his torso, he stumbled up, sword forgotten, blood congealing in the collar of his jacket, some from Thresh, some from the dog-mutie attack. Even so. Gotta keep going. Can't let go now. Can't fall. Not yet.

And then he was running again, the leaves and branches of the forest snagging on his ripped clothing, pulling him back in the half-light, treacherous roots threatening to trip him up at every turn, the unclear path through the trees another stubborn obstacle between him and victory. Chest heaving, airways closing, he vaulted a rock; the marker that Clove had dubbed 'the lump,' the indicator that there was just two hundred metres from the Cornucopia. That was twenty-six seconds on a good day. But today was not a good day. He was tired, hungry, injured, unarmed save for the knives that he'd salvaged off Clove's body before she'd been lifted out to nowhere.

But the woods sped past, and with the creatures beginning to fall back, regroup, he saw his chance. Every muscle straining, frantic, he sped towards the great horn in the centre, the metres disappearing underneath him. He ditched his bag. It was useless now. All that mattered was that he got up, out of reach of the snarling jaws that were _this close_ to tearing him apart. He leapt up onto the side, the gold mesh offering ample handholds for his fingers to link in and scramble up. His boots, two sizes too large to fit in the link-holes, slipped a few times, the rain reverting the burnished metal into a death trap, and though he stayed up, every time another finger was numbed, ripped out of its socket as he held on for dear life.

By the time Cato reached the top, a slick sheen of sweat was clinging onto his skin, dampening the clothes underneath, chilling him as the temperature dropped. Grateful, he all but collapsed onto the surface of the Cornucopia, twenty feet above the ground, and twenty blissful feet safer. A quiet relief swept over him as he stared up at the pixel-stars above him. They didn't even look like the constellations at home. Then again, most of the sky above Two was a smoky, steamy mess, the ironworks and the constant industrialism obscuring the light. At least they got internet connection.

And the stillness was shattered by the other two bursting from the forest, shouting and supporting each other, a few screams from the duo. His head throbbing where Thresh had smacked it open with his scimitar, chest split open, deep clawmarked scratches crusted with blood, now black in the darkness, he pulled himself over behind one of the crags on the surface, waiting for his vision to stop dancing and the nausea to subside. He crossed his fingers as he waited for one of the two to be caught, waiting for the crack of bones breaking, or the agonised screams as the muties got them and he could finally sleep. But no.

He heard the gasps of relief and desperate breathing as both reached the top unharmed, helping the other up and reaching the summit as the dogs howled ruefully below, the snatches of growls being coated by the sudden downpour of the rain. Out of sight, Cato tried to stand, to pick them off now before they could recalibrate themselves, but the sudden movement sent the world back into psychedelic vertigo. Crap.

Dizzy, he slumped back behind the tail of the Cornucopia, waiting for the pain to subside. When he pressed his fingers against his forehead, to try and relieve the pain, they came away coated in slippery blood. The scratch marks over his chest were still bleeding profusely, and he was feeling decidedly light-headed. But they were there, baiting, looking for him. They were going to kill him. But not if he killed them first.

And so he grabbed the boy, and left it at a terse stalemate, and took a few exhausted moments to swallow the bile rising in his throat and tried not to let his knees fall out from underneath his own dead weight. And that bitch had a mean-looking arrow pointed at his head, the tip honed between his eyes.

-but he didn't care because he was tired and in pain and wanted above all else to just let himself go and be free and never just never never never never-

No.

His name was Cato Ramirez. And he was not going to be beaten by the bitch from Twelve.

He'd backed himself into a corner in his pathetic moment of wallowing in self-doubt, pulling the boy tighter into a headlock, but he needed more time. Time to come up with a plan. Time to win. But he was out of time, the arrow on his head and the fire in that girl's eyes a morbid reminder of his frail mortality, the movement of a finger the boundary between life and not-life. And so he began to talk, blaring out the secrets and hell and the will to die, because if he was to die then, so help him, he would take down her lover boy with him. And then he would be the winner. Even if he was to perish with the honour expected of him, he would win and break this bitch and win. And win. And that was all that mattered.

He could feel the Mellark boy drawing a cross onto his hand, wet with blood. Almost too late, he realised the ulterior motive and reacted. And yet despite his panic, he just wasn't fast enough. He did have enough time, though, to brace himself for the impact. It still didn't ready him for the searing white noise of pain as the arrowhead split between the bones in his hand. The shaft went through the flesh as his hand spasmed slightly, but he steadied it enough to snap the boy's neck, tensing his aching muscles and numbly smirked as he heard the bones and sinew in his spine break, not at odds to the way in which he had dispatched Finch not three days earlier.

He wasn't happy. He was in his frenzy of excitement, yet numb inside, every moment rolling past in slow motion and every colour ramped up into high intensity, ringing in his ears. 'So. Huh.' He was panting between words, tears streaming from his eyes, the hornet-like throb in his hand akin to the tracker jacker venom that was still being carried around in his bloodstream. 'So we're- we're even now. Huh. Say goodbye to lover boy.'

He could see the blank indifference in her eyes as he tossed the limp body over the side of the Cornucopia for the muties to ravage. In the background, the cannon fired, the boom resonating throughout the hollow space. Everything was quiet and still, for a fraction of a second.

And then there was the sudden roar that came from her as she leapt onto him, biting and scratching, arrows forgotten, the few she had left sliding out of the quiver. But that was always the downfall of rage. It dulled everything. Only when a person was completely apathetic could they see clearly.

Cato supposed that was the reason why he felt nothing when she tackled him over the edge.

Hitting the floor with an almighty crack, he was sure that he felt something in his ribcage give way, and he was momentarily paralysed in fear before instinct kicked in and he pushed Katniss aside to the other group of dogs; because, all things considered, he figured he could sort himself out, adapting to a stable position as he stared down the dog-mutie that barked at him, hackles raised, razor-sharp teeth bared in a ferocious snarl.

Desperate, he was fighting, grappling with the creatures, slowly being dragged under as the muties advanced ever-closer. He heard the Katniss's screams as she attacked the creatures with everything she had. Only one of them was getting out. Cato had been so sure it would have been him. Even though his knife was out, the last one, there were more coming over and biting and clawing and ripping him open with a ferocity that sent him past pain and suffering, past humanity, past denial and acceptance, past the beyond. And a cannon fired, and he knew that he was dead.

The voice comes over the speakers, the anthem of Panem blaring out and the hovercraft soared above, coming to pick his body up. Limp, blood-spattered, he was ascending up and up towards the fake painted sky and heaven-

And there were people fussing over him and placing an oxygen mask over his face and he _breathes_-

And the arrow in his hand was stinging with the constant clamour for attention and they pulled it out and he _screams_-

And the lights are coming in from every angle glaring in his eyes but he is _alive_-

And-

And-

And the world goes quiet as he cedes to the morphling that they're pushing ever-increasing amounts into his system. His last thought before he went under was the simple, burning question of, after all the chaos and trauma; 'Did I win?'

But he'd gone before they can tell him that he is victorious.

~.*.~

**District 12, Northeast Panem**

It's only mid-afternoon, despite the chaos in the twilight of the arena. From within the houses, the Hob, from the square in front of the Hall of Justice, an uncanny silence falls. Baited breath. Noiseless prayers. Recompense does not come lightly in the grubby ramshackles of District Twelve.

Katniss Everdeen is standing on the Cornucopia, murder in her eyes. There's nothing but the softness of hushed anticipation. From somewhere far away, a baby screams into the distance. Its cries go unattended. Everyone is watching, their rapt eyes fixated, glued to the screens. Nobody moves. Nobody blinks. Nobody breathes.

Gale Hawthorne is not watching.

He's given up since then; he's never been a fan of the Games, instead focussing his anger and heartbreak into hunting and his work. He's eighteen- old enough to get a job. He has done so.

Obediently, he goes down to the mines every day now, then washing the coal dust and grime off once he gets back home. The thing is with grime and muck is that it doesn't come off. No matter how hard he tries, as he does now, scrubbing the faceless grey away down the drain, it's still there, just under the skin, just out of reach. It's a constant and brutal reminder of the finality of this life. Twelve is a harsh and unforgiving place, and winter will soon be here, and the lulled enthral under the snowfallen veil of lifelessness.

The chipped porcelain of the sink, as white as things got in Twelve save for the snow, gurgles in protest as the tank emptied and they run out of water again. Above, the tap splutters, leaking out the last of the muddy water, the dregs splashing around in the basin below. He tries to swill it out, get rid of the dirty scum that sits at the bottom, scraping at it with his fingernail around the drain. It refuses to budge.

From the square, he hears the cannon go off, and the cheering, and for once, for just this beautiful once, he deludes himself into believing that Katniss has done the impossible. Feral, fierce, fiery Katniss Everdeen who took the Districts and Capitol by storm alike, the Girl on Fire has burnt her way into fortune and freedom. Unfinished, he wipes his still-dirty hands on his shirt- Rory is using their only proper towel, and he doesn't want to mar one of the few things that the dust has not yet contaminated beyond any form of basic cleanliness. He pauses in the odd emptiness that has descended.

Instantly, he knows that something is wrong.

The noise of the crowd has ceased. The tension has returned, and he can all but see the dust flaking into the wind, spiralling down to layer the District under a blanket of stillness. Inhaling, he begins to run because he will not believe it until he can see it himself, he will not believe, will not, _will not_-

As he rounds the corner, he starts to run, bare feet pounding over the gravel and asphalt, splitting his soles open on the stones below, the rhythmic thudding out of place, shattering the fragments of silence. Biting, the autumnal cold starts to seep in, and he tries to curse himself for not thinking to put on a jacket. It's the least he can do to occupy his mind. For he cannot let himself think what he knows is true.

It looms in front of him. A giant banner in his face, the screen vividly plastering the stern face of Katniss Everdeen, and for a moment he thinks she's done it. Yet the words he has feared to see come swimming into view below; a remorseless 'the fallen Tribute' splitting the screen in two.

Prim is screaming. He can't hear her.

Suddenly, a red-hot anger surges through him, and part of him wants to cease, to forget, to just give up and slide down the nearest wall, to let his grief consume him. But he has always acted on impulse, raw emotion; he's never been one to give up and drop his façade enough to cede. The more a person lies to themselves, he thinks, the more they believe it. It's gotten him through the last few of the particularly devastating winters, tragedy and heartache, this pretence of being alright, the blatant and futile self-belief that he relied upon.

Now it lies forgotten, shattered, fragmented beyond any sort of repair as the bugle call rings out and the anthem plays, a hollow ring in the air.

In the front row as he watches, a hand went up. A three-fingered salute, a symbol of sacrifice and respect; nowhere near the tribute that she deserves, but the only way that the oppressed of Twelve can display their admiration.

Another salute goes up. And then another. And another.

And by the time it reaches him, the lone man standing at the back, eyes dead and empty, every person in the square has their fingers in the air, held aloft to pay their respects. The district has fallen in love with Katniss, and for once, for once, it has given them hope. Maybe hope is the best weapon. Maybe it isn't. But he's heard about the rioting in Eleven, and even now, he can feel the seeds of rebellion in the air. Crackling with life, the atmosphere thickens and seems to be charged with electricity; it will only take a second for the residents to snap and decide upon their verdict. They just need a spark.

They need the match to light the fire. But Katniss Everdeen is dead.

So he takes it upon himself to be the spark.

Anguished, the world comes into focus again. This time, he can hear Prim screaming. Every time she shrieks at the screen, sobbing like the child she is, righteously angry and afraid. It wrenches at something inside his chest. Tugging at his heartstrings. Catching in his throat. A hollow opening up because he realises, for the first time, that these games are undoubtedly _real_. Because next time, it'll be Rory or Vick, or Lyle and Beck from the Hob, or the mayor's kid Madge that he sells turkeys to in the autumn. Or Posy, his youngest sister, barely ten years old and with a smile that would light up the night sky- it will be her that's lying dead in that arena, the angelic smile twisted into a contorted grimace. He just can't face it. It was never an issue when his own life was on the line. Except now they've made it personal.

Resounding, a chorus of Mockingjay calls begins to soar above the crowd, the birds and the people singing the hymn of loss, keening in the aftermath. Four notes, the harrowing echoes of loss and quiet mourning reverberating into the square. From behind their cowardly visors, the peacekeepers are getting antsy, shifting from foot to foot, and any minute now they're going to stop it before it can start. And so he lights the fire.

Yelling out into the square, he barrels into one of the faceless white shadows, letting the momentum crash the helmet against the ebony doors of the Hall of Justice. It splits as the peacekeeper crumples behind him, both the wood and the helm, and before the others can react, he has roused the rest of the district. From the corner of his eye, he can start to see people taking action.

They're barging against the wood with him, and suddenly there are bodies everywhere and strong hands pushing open the doors, shouting and rioting in the streets as the papers for the Games are going up in smoke, the flames licking at the forms, documents falling through the air like snow. Within the chaos, he charges along the corridor, the siege against the peacekeepers falling away now; the amassed rioters are pushing back like a wave. Unstoppable, they continue, observers as the coal reserves are torched and the darkness of the smog fills the air.

Rising into the sky, the smoke, as a shadow looms over the crowds. In the calamitous rage of the situation, it makes him think, a soft moment of serenity among the escalating violence. Black isn't a colour. It's the absence of colour. It's the nothingness when all the vibrancy and life has been sucked away: the nothingness that's left behind once the lease for life has been drained off. It's the void and the darkness and the absence of everything a person could love. There is still hope for the grey of coal dust and apathy; there is light in that, and though it seems bleak, everything may return, the colour and force reawakening. For black, it is the nothing, past nothing, not even nothing.

The profound deeper-meaning shit is messing with his head. He decides to go back to the mindlessness of gratuitous violence.

The riots continue with renewed vigour, the walls tumbling down, the militia falling back, the madness escalating and enveloping all that stand in its way. Slowly, more and more people join, the repressed anger stemming from years of mistreatment until the district is alight, the Capitol's influence being silenced underneath the protesting roars of the rioters. Some of the men he recognises from the mines; the brutality he has seen them channel into hacking away at the rocks all day is now redirected, given purpose. Peacekeepers aren't instructed to use lethal force, and so they can only stand back and watch as the crowd keeps ploughing forwards, trailblazing into the future.

By now, it's night and the sky has darkened, the stars obscured by the smoke from the fires, and still he pushes on, out of Twelve, out from here, out and away from the lingering memory of Katniss Everdeen. He sees it in the woods, in the houses, in the very air that sustains his breath, now fogging into clouds in the floodlit trail. And so he trudges onwards, ever further onwards. He doesn't know where he is, or where he's going, but out seems the only way forwards. Focussed on the path ahead, still barefoot, steely eyes staring out into nowhere.

A hand slips into his and he jolts back, suddenly aghast at the unwarranted contact. Blinking, his brother's starry eyes look up into his, and his pilgrimage out stops dead in its tracks. Swarming past him, the others continue, and yet he stays for a moment, parting the current, a rock in a river. He turns back.

By the time he gets back, it's nearing midnight, and Rory's gotten tired, now piggybacking on Gale's back, head nestled into his shoulder. Albeit, he feels like crap for abandoning them, caught up in the moment of madness, but there's a sense of tranquillity that helps to shorten the gaps between the chatter of conversation. Rory's always been the chattiest one, his frantic motor-mouth spewing out comforting drivel into the bleak. He's finally shut up, and not that Gale means that in a harsh way, he's just happier alone with his thoughts right now. Which suits him just fine.

Yet in a gruesome parallel to the events that unfolded mere hours ago, when his world was different- without this gaping hole in the centre of his chest that he refuses to accept, filling with fury and muted swears of revenge- again, he feels the unnerving prickle down the back of his spine that signals that _something is not right_.

His suspicions are confirmed only moments later, when a barrage of peacekeepers' vehicles saunter up, approaching the outskirts of the District, armoured jeeps bringing with them only the threat of further violence and repercussions for law-breaking. One of the carriers splashes past in the rain, one wheel jarring in a waterlogged pothole, spraying a fine dusting of water over the two of them. Without a second more, the hesitation rushes out of him.

Gale sets down his younger brother, now sleepy and listless, into the hollow nook at the base of one of the huge old beech trees. It's endured for centuries, he knows that. If anything can protect Rory, it's this beacon of strength and longevity. 'Gale?' his brother calls after him, as he paces off, and it's all the older sibling can do to send back a smile.

'Stay here. I'll come and get you when it's safer.'

'Promise?'

Gale hated promises, but complied. 'I promise.'

Then he's running back to the town, past rows of run-down living quarters not fit for man nor beast, past soldiers and saviours, past the men on the floor, guns at their heads, begging for mercy. _Not allowed to use lethal force, _he repeats over and over, never catching the eyes of the people on their knees, some with tears streaking down sooty faces, some visibly shaking, others just praying for a miracle.

With the terror of death hanging over their heads, the riots have quelled, not calmed, just repressed under the guns of the overseers. Tense, yes, but quiet. Nothing breaks the uneasy truce between oppressors and oppressed, an impossible peace established. No, it won't last, but it's calm for the moment. Swallowing, thankful for the lull, he veers off to find the family that he's left behind, and piece this back together once he's grieved in the normality of it all. Acceptance is impossible, but he can stay.

And then the guns start to fire.

~.*.~

A fire goes out in the arena.

A fire starts in the district.

Primrose Everdeen is scared. She can feel the lump in her throat, her breath catching. For a moment, she doesn't breathe. She can't. Won't. Not until she has proof that this is real. Real or not real. It's impossible, and yet something yearns for the impossible to be, for something that will never happen to come to pass in the fiery fury of red and gold that taunts her with a tormenting visage that cannot be.

Katniss stands across from Prim's shadowed vantage point. Stoic, proud. Back turned, as if she doesn't want to acknowledge the little sister standing behind her. Prim knows that it isn't real; it can't be, subconsciously, the deranged wanderings of a timid twelve-year-old forced to grow up too quickly. She saw her sister mauled by the Capitol's instruments of war- she's pretty sure that she knows when she's dreaming.

It doesn't make it any less terrifying.

'Katniss,' she pleads, knowing already that it will be of no vainglorious use, desperation sinking into her voice. 'Katniss, please.' Upon hearing, the tribute-thing (because it isn't Katniss, cannot be, will not be-) it turns around, stopped, paused, like a photograph, otherworldly still, frozen in the sombre instant of realisation. And as Prim calls out, asking for life, for hope, for anything, she grasps the Not-Katniss's hand, trying to entwine their fingers as they did not a month ago, but the vision is flaking, eroding, black ash carried away by the storm that has sprung up around the two.

The debris whirlpools away in swirling eddies that float in the tempest between her and oblivion. Prim is staring in reviled fascination, unafraid to cry and yell, unable to help as the image of her sister disintegrates before her eyes. She doesn't want to see the abyss, a black hole in the centre of her chest, looking at the unseeing expression in the dull eyes, but she simply cannot tear her unwilling gaze away.

There is a hellish pause that opens a chasm between the two, and the thing stares her dead in the eye, but the face is gone, empty and fractured, cracked like porcelain, and then it is gone, carried, spirited away on the wind.

As the scene fades, the same three words are resonating over and over, hounding her until the clog up every conceivable thought and dominate all in its way, each word landing a physical blow until she's on the floor and screaming for mercy.

'Hello, little duck.'

Drenched in sweat, and shaking like a November leaf, Primrose Everdeen wakes. Sitting bolt upright would attract too much attention, and would probably wake her mum as well; instead, she lies there, in a salty wrap of her own sweat and tears, sodden bedsheets demanding a wash. Outside the walls, the local owls are vying for attention, each hoot and birdcry another call for recognition. Listening to them calms her nerves. After a good half an hour, she's stopped shaking, and recounting that demonic emptiness in the face of the Not-Katniss. Even so, she daren't go back to sleep. Dreams have a sly way of coming back to haunt us.

Thus, she ends up staring at the same point in the chipped plasterwork until the owls give way to the dawn chorus, and by then she knows it's alright to be awake.

Brusquely, she dresses herself in the muted blue tunic that she accepted as a commiseration, and an old pair of leggings that are a little too baggy around the hips, and sit awkwardly on her as if they'd rather return to their previous owner. Things don't just go to waste in Twelve. So she has to don her sister's leggings and has to get on with it, rolling up the ankles so they don't trail in the grime, and tying the belt around her waist. It's a single notch too tight.

Grabbing a pail from the shed outside, Prim stifles a yawn, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and going to find Lady. Buttercup meowls indignantly, clawing at her knees until she sets down the bucket and scrubs the top of his head with her fingers. It only takes a couple of seconds before he's purring, deep and throaty, like the growl that evolution has forgotten. She smiles at him, and tosses him the gristle and dregs of solidified gravy from last night. For a cat, he can make himself look incredibly short-changed at times, and though she knows there's no more that she can offer him, he still gets down to gnawing at the scraps with a derisive satisfaction that only cats can give off.

Thankfully, she's found solace in her duties; tending to the animals has given her a purpose, a reason to get up in the morning. Katniss told her mum not to shut down, not to relapse again back to the deadened unresponsiveness that came after the death of her father all those years ago. Honestly, Prim isn't entirely sure if she's stayed true to her word, but they've both found themselves work, and that's helping to cover the costs of living. Despite it all, the first thing she does after the incident on the day that everything changed was to take out a tesserae. On balance, it's not a large price to pay for that little bit of extra support to get them through the winter to come.

By the time the sun's peeked up over the horizon of shaky flats and cruel snakes of barbed wire, the men are on their way to the mines, trudging off down in steelcapped boots and glum expressions, already coated in dust and grime. Pausing to scan for faces as the pass, she catches Gale's eye, and he sends her a slight, sad smile. It isn't the most reassuring, but it's got an inkling of recognition in it, as if the world could be reassured by the simplest of gestures. Of course it would be a better place if it could. In that unfeasible world of tolerance and forgiveness, the Games don't haunt the waking moment of every mother everywhere. Hers included.

Once she's tended to her little menagerie, she picks up her shoes from out of the muck, adjusts her attire and scurries down to the shop where she earns her keep. The work is menial at times, and degrading at others, but today is her quota day, and it frees her from the errand-running and book-keeping, and once she's signed her name in- yes, she has a signature now, she's grown into quite the little industrious worker- she can scarper off to the meadows at the back of Twelve and collect the flowers to decorate the shop.

Summer, and the blooms in the window are bright and colour coded to extravagance; but it is not summer, and the flowers are giving up as days are drawing in, a fitting close to the end of the year. This week's bouquets are muted, toned down to the November to come, full of willows' weeping fronds, grasses' heads bent double in remembrance, dried seedcases rattling in the breeze.

It makes for a dour sight, lifeless. Like anything in the harrowing darkest of times, it needs a little colour. Poppies pepper the fields with a regretful crimson, but it is the primroses to which she is drawn. Resilient, it stands against the frosts and wintry, frostbitten conditions, still little dabs of hope in the dying grasslands. Loath as she is to pick them, the display calls.

Uprooting them feels wrong; they were once wild and free, now to be potted in terracotta and sold off to the rich, the ruling elite in Twelve, to be forever shelved and gather stalwart dust. Yet it is her job and her duty, and she cups the closed buds in her hands before placing into the soil and muck of their captivity.

Crating them is the worst; jostling for space, and crammed in together, they cannot help but look forlorn. Loading them up into the tray, she packs dirt in betwixt the pots, and then ferries them back to the shop, one crate at a time. By the time it reaches mid-afternoon, she's done all but one, and her boots are rubbing terribly against the soles of her feet.

The last one, and she's trotting back, not loitering exactly, but there's a little bit of time left to kill, and she's just checking up on the cat when another of the peacekeepers decides to come and pry.

With a degree of caution she rarely applies, she tilts her head, trying to acknowledge the man in white without opening herself to further criticism. Evident in the unseeing visor, she can see past the blackness to the disapproving stare underneath. She wonders what must drive the men inside the uniforms. It can't be humanity, that's certain.

Momentary, there's an instant where she doesn't know what to think, and then the man venomously strikes the tray from her hands, spilling earth and petals over the floor. Unjustified. Though the impact isn't enough to crush the flowers, and she initially thinks she has enough time to recover the blemishes of colour, but no; the soldier crunches the flowers under his boot, sudden, sodden, stark. They lie, crumpled and bleeding out, onto the floor. Rough-hewn, a gruff voice tells her to stop wasting time, and then moves off, rifle shouldered and looming, a mindless act designed only to provoke her, give him an excuse to retaliate.

She feels the part of Katniss in her, as she dampens the spark of anger inside her, and a portion of the quiet little Primrose Everdeen wants to hit her aggressor, hard, right in the guts. But she's only twelve years old, only District Twelve, _only_ Primrose Everdeen; her voice will never be heard, and she'll simply be put down like the rioters last night. Reform had snapped in almost immediately, an extra several sanctions of peacekeepers being brought in to keep them in line. On every street corner, at every junction, sometimes lighting up cigarettes and wafting the smoke in the faces of the passers-by, sometimes tapping out rhythms or whistling into the slums. Scariest of it is when they do nothing at all, rapt and tuned to attention like a machine waiting for its next command. And sometimes also an excuse for gratuitous violence and threats beyond that of rifles and water cannon- but she keeps that to herself, as she salvages what she can and makes do.

That's what Twelve is; it's the salvage left behind after everyone else has made do.

Subdued, she drags her feet as she runs back to the shop to concede and give them what's left of the batch. Expecting a ratting out, she braces herself for berating, but the owner is sympathetic after her ordeal, and offers her up a chipped mug of hot, sweet tea- it peps her up no end after the rain and senseless acts of prejudice outside. Prim's surprised to see that the shopkeeper puts sugar in her tea. It's normally tacky Capitol-issued sweeteners shipped en masse from One, but here, in the box underneath the desk, is sickly-sweet, bona fide, white granules of sugar, date-stamped straight from Nine. Prim doesn't ask how she got it. Probably somehow illegal.

Stretching out after that, the hours roll by. And she diligently arranges her flowers in the window, and sells a couple of her Primroses to the few patrons of the shop, and then it's time her shift is over, the bell on the door ringing into the dusk one last time as the owner locks up. A meagre number of coins clink in her hand as she is paid for her work, and then she slinks home, warily watching the militants from the corner of her eye.

Despite her standing, she doesn't fear revolution; she can feel it, tangible in the air, and she knows the men can too. But she settles down and cooks and cleans and sorts her stuff for school tomorrow with the hollow feeling of anticipation.

It will not be an unseen revolution, there will be no quiet undoing. Like a phoenix, there's change coming. And she'll want to be there when the world rises anew. She's just worried that she'll burn herself in the flames that precede rebirth.

~.*.~


	2. Chapter 2: Parallax

**Victor's Palace, Capitol City centre, Midwest Panem**

Lights. Lights everywhere.

'…and by God, what a Games this has been! But there's only one winner, and I give you now a young man of great prestige and unwavering talent. Victorious, glorious, and- if you ask me-oh, so bloody gorgeous-'

More polite than anything else, the audience collectively snickers into their handbags. Flickerman waits for the muffled laughter to subside, before continuing his spiel. From behind where Cato is standing, Cybess gestures, dainty movements gesturing around the space. 'Only a minute now, darling,' she simpers, all sickly-sweet, honeyed tones that she's rehearsed a thousand times before, more than three decades of escort duties glossed over with extensive plastic surgery and garish smears of smuck on her face. 'Alright, alright, then it'll be your cue- remember, head up,' she gestures, flicking her fingers out as if to take out one of his eyes with one of those talon-fingernails 'then smile out, show them all of your charisma and charm. There we go, smile for me, let's see those teeth- up and at 'em, there we go. There we go.'

Cato can't concentrate. From between Caesar mercilessly yammering away on the stage, with his 'of course, this year's tributes have been fantastic participants-'

To Cybess behind him, washed-out and preening like a dickybird with her own rambling 'and then he'll ask you about your family back in your district, alright, and you'll answer- do you remember what you're answering-'

To the constant, omniscient ringing in his ears that hasn't gone away since he's gotten out of the arena-

But he pulls himself together, tries to steady his shaking knees, and waits for his cue. Appearing on stage, in front of the thousands that have paid more than a sensible man's yearly salary to get here and watch him cavort around in that infamous chair, it's just another part of the Games. No, they don't finish easily, and they won't end until he completes his victory tour, another trial in the constantly ongoing drag of the politics and power ploys.

'And so, fine Ladies and Gentlemen of the Capitol, I proudly present to you, the trailblazing winner of the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games-'

'A-a-and you're up… now now now now -go-'

'Cato-'

'That's you-'

Onstage. Lights. Lights everywhere, lenses flaring in his eyes; flickering, constant, beleaguering lights. From within the crowd, the masses roar with appreciation, almost animalistic in their frantic delight. Technicolour, the fashions unapologetically lavish -and, unwaveringly, really fucking stupid- stoned up on whatever designer drugs that were doing the rounds at that moment, the Capitol's rowdy elite yell and whistle, some catcalls audible through the haze of noise.

It's sick. He revels in it.

Smirking, he waves, a nonchalant flick of the hand, but it's the accompanying wink that sends the females in the crowd into outrage. Setting himself down, he spins in the chair, kicking his feet up and resting them on Flickerman's seat. Once the audience's racket has died down a little, he sends a knowing look over at Caesar, trying, really, not to notice the blatant signs of Botox-polymer injected into the guy's forehead. The guy's been doing the games for seven and a half decades; perfection doesn't come cheap in the Capitol, where living your life for three times longer than those in the districts is more mandatory than looking like a peacock in spangles. He's heard rumours that the guy's a hundred and eight, lifespan extended indefinitely by the Lifegiver™ that the Capitol's been force feeding its inhabitants for the last hundred years or so.

Either way, it's the same Capitol that's getting his family up, out, and over the poverty line and into success and prosperity, so he can't really complain now. And just when he felt like having a good bitch about the frivolous bastards that run the nation. Pity.

'Cato.' Caesar raises his glaring, sapphire-tinted eyebrows; they arc so high that Cato's pretty sure they're going to spring into life and jump off of his shiny forehead. It's almost comical in their abject freakiness; as if looking like a tosser is a sport here, with free tickets to the local plastic surgeon as a reward.

'Caesar.' Cato shouts back, watching the audience collectively jolt with surprise, and snicker at the response. As if to counter, the host jumps, straight out of the chair, eyes stretched to three times their normal size, almost like grapefruits in his skull. He gasps in mock surprise, one shaking hand clutched over his chest like it's a lifeline.

'Gosh,' he throws a patronisingly knowing look out into the audience, who bark like dogs at his showmanship. 'Nearly gave me a heart attack there.' Extravagant, he exhales, seconds ticking out as he pretends to compose himself. 'So Cato,' he starts, grimacing his contorted face into what Cato really hopes is a smile. 'That was pretty tense.'

'I'd know,' Cato replies, a hint of apathy in his voice. 'I was there.' He knows which question is coming next; something along the lines of his flea-bitten monologue as his life flashed before his eyes. Or whatever.

'And your little speech at the end?' he asks, cocking his head to the side like a sparrow, so far over that it looks like he's broken his neck. Of course that's what Caesar wants to ask, what the audiences want to hear. Does their 'fearless victor' have a sensitive side? The response has been prepared a thousand times, and still feels fickle and artificial in Cato's mouth, heavily cumbersome as he answers.

'I needed a distraction. I mean, when you think about it, I was running out of time, and telling her that I was gonna dispatch her in slow and painful manner wasn't exactly going to win me any favours now, was it?' he shrugs, secretly willing for the torment to end. ''Sides, I was still hallucinating from the jacker stings. Gotta give me some credit here, I was malfunctioning more than Three in a power cut.' That receives a bit of a laugh, and the tension starts to dissipate, as he relaxes and easily slips back into his role. And yeah, he knows that Three also manufactures plastics, weaponry, and supplies half of Panem with clean water, but it's fun to play on the stereotype.

Flickerman nods in response. Cato can feel the sick pit in his stomach beginning to recede; the audience seems to have swallowed his blatant bullshitting, at least for now. Encouraged, he continues the interview in a similar manner, all witty banter and feeling the fire in his heart ignite. It's heartening, and within seconds he's back to joking, bragging, beefing up his victory. No matter what they said back home, he can't deny that Caesar knows exactly how to hold a crowd; for the half hour that Cato is on air, clamouring as it is broadcast live to every screen in the nation, he veritably shines in his role. Dynamic, powerful, a gleeful and worthy victor, standing proud. He finishes with a simple statement, and the crowd goes wild. 'Told you I was a winner.'

He's beaming as he's lead off the stage, the Capitol emblazoning his name into the night, a chant of his name following him as if he's forgotten his own identity. But simply put, he's never been more sure of who he is. This is Cato: cadet, tribute, victor. He's a winner, a leader, an unstoppable riptide dragging down any of the futiles that stand in his way.

Once he's out of the limelight, he's lead down a set of corridors, all bare piping and steel girders, until he reaches his rec room. All of his team is there: Cybess, batting her very fake eyelashes and trying to appear like she has some semblance of value; Enobaria and Leno, both decidedly unimpressed with his colossal cocking up; Elvia, the stylist, once again reaching for her sketchbook, musing out ideas to whoever would listen, all about her latest winter mid-season collections, and whether iodine was the new black, apparently. '...but iodine can't be the new black, because black is the new black, always has been, and oh! It's such a silky colour; I just love that word, said how it sounds, if that makes any sense, just sil-kee, sil-luh-luh-luh, you know?'

Cato excuses himself from all this Capitol bollocks and goes to his room. He'll definitely be home by Sunday, but this is the first time he has a chance to talk to Rin, and he isn't going to pass it up to talk about mauve and ivory ruffle-seams, whatever they are. Setting himself down on the bed, he turns the monitor on in his room, harshly commanding the system to access his Profil. Within the minute he's logged in and he finds Rin's account; he enables the camera and calls his younger brother. There's only an hour's worth of time difference between the Capitol and Two, so he should pick up the call asap.

In a fuzz of static, the screen bursts into life as his brother picks up the call. At first the camera's on the fritz, so all he can see is half of an eye and the inner parts of a fine set of nostrils. Eventually, it comes into focus, and he gets a good and unimpeded view of their new accommodation; Rin's all decked out in new clothes, he's gotten himself a haircut, and by the looks of things, the victors' bedrooms are pretty flippin' enormous.

'Private Rhinnean Ramirez.' he addresses his brother with a salute. 'Good to see you, soldier. Status report?' It's harmless, a reminiscing of the games that they used to play when they were kids, where the tunnels in the Marilyn Academy were like a labyrinth, the best adventure playground that a kid could have. All games then. Now? Not so much.

Rin doesn't have time for games. Yet he's visibly bouncing on the bed; a tightly-packed ball of hyperactivity, trying and failing to contain his excitement that spills out like a river bursting its banks. 'Cato!' he yells, the corners of his eyes screwing up as he expresses his elation. 'I knew you would win even though Jamie told me that you wouldn't but I knew you would because you're amazing and you're the best and I've missed you a lot but Libby's been great because she helped me with my homework while you were gone because she's really good at maths and I'm not so I told her that if she helped me that I would give her something cool when you won and then you totally did win and I was telling everyone that now we have enough money so I can go to the Academy and volunteer and then I can be just like you and then I'll-' he paused for breath, his little chest rising and falling as he caught up with himself.

Cato laughs, despite it all, and motions for his brother to stop. 'Whoa, calm down there. You look like you're about to pop.' Rin pulls a face, and mimes his brain exploding.

Time passes, and they converse amicably, with varying degrees of crazed energy, discussing everything conceivable until his Profil limit is up, and he's given an indignant, bleeping warning by the site, impertinently reminding him that he has to pay for vidicalls over half an hour. With resignation, he makes his excuses, and starts to say goodbye. 'I'll be back in a coupla days or so, and then I'll see you, kay?' he affirms, fixated on the hyperactive ten-year-old onscreen. 'And I'll say hi to Tia while I'm in the city.'

'Okay. Cool. See you. No biggie.' Rin shrugs, trying to make himself look cool in front of his big brother. Without warning, Cato feels a sudden pang of guilt hit home; just by winning, he's making this ten-year-old into something wrong, something that shouldn't happen at such an age. He swallows- not nervous, exactly, just a little uneasy.

No, actually. Not uneasy. He's wrecked inside; he steadies his shaking hands, tries to stem the tremor in his voice, halt the sudden bout of sickness that he's inflicting upon himself. This is all his own fault. Fuck, he feels like throwing up.

'Yeah, sure. Bye then, kiddo.'

He tells the computer to cease transmission, before he starts getting charged for speaking with his family, and then slumps back onto his bed. Absentmindedly, he runs a finger over the twisted scars left by the dogs; they're about a foot long, which is pretty impressive, curling around his side and onto his back in places. Three parallel clawmarks, where the creatures tore apart his flesh; he will bear the branding of the games forever.

He thinks about it for a minute, curious. The Capitol did something that removed all of his old scars; from the time that he fell out of an air vent and broke his crown open, to the time that one of the other volunteers at the 'Cad caught him with the point of a spear before training. All of his old identity, the history he had carved out for himself, long gone, any imperfections clinically wiped away- hell, he even had a haphazard smattering of freckles before he went into the games, and he certainly hasn't come out of the arena with them.

If anything, they're the ugliest of any of his injuries, the winding tracks botched patches of rough skin where he was mauled beyond recognition.

So why leave the scars?

~.*.~

**District 12, Northwest Panem**

There's a tang to the air; winter is here, and nobody's coming out unharmed.

Silent as a shadow, Gale pads through the woods, bow diligently strung and at the ready, scoping out for signs of life. Nothing. It's so bitterly cold- the snowfall has never been kind to them in Twelve- yet this year looks to be shaping up for one of the worst in living memory. Already, there's frost coating the ground, easily half an inch, frigid and crystalline. Spreading across the dusk of fallen leaves, it gives off an ethereal sheen that glares back at him as it catches the dying rays of the winter sun. So dour, so lifeless; not even the birds can be roused from their trees, huddled together in feathery communes to preserve the all-important necessity of heat.

Once again, he gets that ominous feeling that something is watching him. It's been stalking him, always in the back of his mind, a hidden menace, just out of sight. He turns, whirling around, keen eyes desperately searching for something to latch onto; movement, colour, anything. In the frozen air, his breath turns to smoke as it hits the wall of the icy atmosphere.

'Who's there?' It may be a fellow poacher, or one of the refugees fleeing Twelve in the current conflict. Whoever they are, they know he's there, and so he's not gonna be giving away his position either way. 'Hello?' Again. Then, fleeing from the undergrowth, out of the peripheral view in the corner of his eye, a rabbit makes a run for it. Unprepared for it, he jumps, then fires an arrow at the creature.

Even as it flies through the air, he knows that it's going to miss.

To his surprise, it doesn't stray too far from its intended target; the aim isn't true or anywhere near perfect, and he's nowhere close to the eye, where he aimed the shot in his panic, but it catches the creature's flank, and pins it to the leaf-littered floor. Yet the feeling of unease doesn't go away.

Wary, he checks the forest around him one last time, before going to claim his prize. Still struggling, the creature looks up at him, helpless and afraid. Clearing his mind, he pins the animal down as he extracts the arrow, the barbed tip picking up smears of blood and gristle, and it screams in pain. He takes mercy on it, and finishes the job.

Sated, he slings the prize over his shoulder, and goes to collect the rest of the ensnared loot that may just keep his family pulling through the winter. Hunting was so much easier when Katniss was there; higher yields, better strike rates, almost every outing a complete success. Not so much now.

Half an hour later, and he's checked the snares and traps; mostly empty, undisturbed. On the latest one, a spider's begun spinning her web, the half-finished construct jewelled over by the frost. The haul for today is meagre; a partridge, a coupla squirrels, the rabbit, and a salmon he's reluctantly gutted and packed with snow. By now, all of the fish have gone downstream, to warmer climes, but the few that are left are slow, sluggish, unaccustomed to the almost-frozen river. Within the week, there'll be an inch of ice on the surface, and from then on, the pickings will be poor until the bounty of the salmon run in the spring.

There's a moment of almost hallowed silence when he locks eyes with one of the other hunters in the woods. Noticed, Beck raises his eyebrows and sends Gale a tight-lipped smile. They're acquaintances, nothing more, occasionally trading in the Hob; his mother makes shoes, strong yet supple, the leather from anything from deer to possums being turned into a fine pair of boots. It's fascinating to watch it happen, the individual traits and skills of each unique person that trades through the black market becoming something that supports the community. Demoted to practicing in dodgy corners and back allays streaked with the tear-tracks of soot, the populace of Twelve eking out a living off scraps.

At least they weren't the worst place to live in. Secluded, they had their woods and their black market and their corrupt officers: from what he's heard, every third man in District Eight is unemployed, save for those toiling away in the sweatshops and factories; half of the kids in Nine die before they reach two years old. Even as high as the upmarket high standing of the career districts; in District Four, half the salt workers die of exposure by forty. What the Capitol's doing, it ain't right- not in his mind, not in anyone's.

Sated for today, clocking the hours away by the length of the shadows, he makes his way back. Through the reds and oranges of the almost-winter, the fallen leaves a precarious bed underneath his feet. Protesting, they crunch wherever he steps, the ochre and brown crumbling under the onslaught. Once he reaches the stump where he stockpiles his things, he crouches down, the blisteringly cold touch of frost onto his knees soaking through his trousers, sodden, damp. He holes himself up into the crook of an old tree, gnarled with years of wisdom and endurance. Sitting there awhile, coat pulled tight into his torso to keep out the ravaging gnaw of winter.

Coughing into his gloved hands to try and warm his frostbitten fingers that manage to feel both stinging and numb at once, he makes his way out of the woods, back towards the district. The first thing he does is check for the smattering of blood; he's been feverish lately, not especially ill as such, but Vick's come down with tuberculosis, and he doesn't know when- or if- they will be able to get any semblance of medical attention for him. Mrs. Everdeen's doing all that she can, her and Prim, but there's no fated miracle cure for disease in Twelve. He's tried to cut himself off, to prepare for the worst, but there's only so much a person can do. It's the same, over and over; Gale's story is one of tragedy and loss, and this is just another chapter in the lengthy tome of why he shouldn't get attached to people. He tries not to. He shuts down. No more.

His boots trudge reluctantly into the crisp rustle of the grass that is kept completely muted under the frost, as approaches the fence that keeps the district in line. Since the games, there's been six major riots, and uncountable skirmishes and conflicts; he's been directly involved in most of them, and, unlike his fellow insurgents, he's gotten away mostly unharmed. Whoever was in charge of the districts brought in a new head peacekeeper, and now the rioters were being soundly punished. Firing squad wasn't uncommon.

Then that same feeling of unrest hits again. He's in the open this time, and yet the woods seem to rush forwards, as if there's something watching him from there. A slight rustle in the trees sends a flock of resting grouse up into the sky, and then he knows that if it's enough to raise the birds- it's big, it's bad, and it's coming for him. The woods part, and whatever it is, it's out.

He runs. Panicking, he charges head on towards the electric fence, trying to outmatch the thing, but it's fast, incredibly- unnaturally- so. He's so caught up in his own blind terror, he doesn't think to notice the buzzing as the coils and strings of wire leap with a voltage that could render a man unconscious.

Gale hits the fence at full speed. It blows him back with the force of several hundred volts.

Dazed, terrified, writhing in irrevocable agony, his head hits the floor, the shock from the electricity catching him short of breath. It's like the state between awake and asleep; the peripheral nowhere, the limbo between the two worlds. But he's alive. Just.

The fence is designed to incapacitate, not kill; the voltage is high, but the current is low, and despite the hazardously yellow warning signs, he's been caught on it a few times, but it's never been enough to do this. Momentarily paralysed- literally, the electricity is still winding through him, causing him to spasm as the spark keeps surging through his stricken form- he can see the thing that was stalking him all this time as his vision starts to blur, the electrical burns that are singed across his palms starting to sting. Huge, snarling, with a vehement anger that could strip flesh from bone. In a cruel twist, the roles of hunter and hunted have been reversed, and he realises why he's been uneasy this entire time. He's found the thing that was carnivorously prowling through the undergrowth after him. It's the wolf mutt from the arena.

And this one has Katniss's eyes.

He passes out.

And then he's awake.

The trial lasts for the entirety of twenty-six minutes, in which the world is still spinning in ever-decreasing circles of unsteady nausea. An ominous noiselessness fills the airspace between the people in the square, and he can hardly stand up straight as he is publicly tried for a crime that has previously gone unpunished. Blinking, squinting into the last dying effort of the sun, he's so far under that he can't discern faces, just a thousand blank stares accusing him into an eclipsed nihilism that manages to both set his senses on edge and dullen the mind to the point of fading into nothingness. Bleary, he can only accept and succumb to his fate, as he is condemned to a public humiliation.

Echoing throughout the square, the Hall of Justice towering behind him, he tries to rub his aching eyes, trying not to aggravate the searing burns that streak over his hands, but is hindered by the handcuffs that chafe over his wrists, scraping the skin off, peals of blood slipping down his fingers as he struggles, tired, to get himself free. Impertinent, a peacekeeper prods him just above the hip, the metal of the gun a pre-warning shot poked into the small of his back. Gale glares at the man behind the craven diffidence of the helmet, and raises his head in defiance as the punishment is declared to the community.

'Gale Hawthorne, you are tried with unlawfully poaching in prohibited areas, contrary to section twenty-two of the Charter of the Peace, section eleven, sub-clause c. How do you plead?'

The punishment for hunting is twenty lashes. For being outside the fence, it's another twenty. For pissing off this peacekeeper, it's death.

Numb, he accepts. He pleads guilty.

'Hawthorne, do you have anything to say in your defence?' Gale's head is spinning, his hands shaking. He can barely speak, let alone explain his frustration: frustration that his brother is dying; that nobody in his family is likely to survive this past winter, they'll freeze to death for lack of firewood, paraffin, gas, anything; that they can't afford to put food on the table. No, he doubts that they'd be sympathetic. He shakes his head. Silence falls.

'There is no need for the trial to be adjourned. We have reached the verdict.' The head peacekeeper nods to his subordinates, and they drag him to the newly-erected post in the centre of the square. Where before there were markets and young children frolicking in the gravel and dust, now there is a post; four feet tall, the clamps on either side designed to keep people in line.

In the short time that the post has been up, he's seen a couple of the beatings; brutal, nasty things. They killed a woman the other day, stripped her bare and stoned her in the middle of the square, each brick they threw at her breaking open the skin, concussing, shedding blood. The stains are still there, fervent and angry, faded to brown. This brutality was common here, but it had never crossed his mind that someday he would be the one on the line.

The world seems to blur in front of him, the blank stare of the peacekeeper driving like a tracker jacker into the back of his skull. _No_, he decides, rage thrashing about in his mind; _no._ Catching him unawares, he denies the accusation, yelling out, calling for mercy, anything. Steely, chiselled like granite, the face of the head peacekeeper shows not a wavering flicker of emotion; there is no point in begging. This man does not take pity on criminals.

Unsympathetic, the peacekeepers ram his head against the post, forcefully, enough to crack it open and let the blood spill into his eye. The world is bathed in a sea of crimson. Obscuring all. That's why the first lash of the whip catches him unawares; he screams with the sudden snap of pain that slices his back open.

And thus begins hell.

~.*.~

It's happening right in front of her.

Gale Hawthorne is getting beaten to death, and there's nothing she can do. Inside, her nursing instinct is on full-alert, and she is doing everything she can to hinder the urge to rush out, stem the bleeding, to protect him. For the few seconds that she is filled with rage and the will to action, she can barely contain herself.

It's what Katniss would have done. But her sister is dead, and Prim doesn't have that sort of courage. Envisioning herself storm out, stopping the madness in an act of courage and rabid insanity, preventing further bloodshed; it's easy to think, but she doesn't have the guts to go through with it. Momentarily, she feels like running out into the square, even makes a few jolting movements towards the post, but with every crack, and every pained call for aid, she drifts further from the notion. Katniss is enraged. Prim is just scared.

Open wounds litter his back now, the skin shredded and the blood freely flowing, staining the concrete below an otherworldly shade of crimson, pooling rivers spreading out over the floor. Still the harassment continues -crack-  
>-scream-<br>-and he's only twenty-one lashes into the trial, only a little more than halfway through. She doesn't know how he's going to live through this; already he's lost too much blood, and his accuser doesn't show signs of slowing.

Gale passes out after twenty-eight. Rattled, she's unsure of which is worse; the screaming, or the silence.

The accuser continues, calling out each stroke of the whip, the leather knots cutting into Gale's back; deeply enough to scar him for life. God, Prim's hands are itching, desperate to treat the open wounds over the knotted flesh. Contaminated with dirt and grit, the seams of the wounds scream for attention, but nobody has the conviction to run out. Blanketing the square, the threat of sanctions and suffering keeps them in check, hushed and obedient, clamped down under the terror of an iron rule.

'Thirty-nine,' he shouts to the square, the penultimate accusation, harsh and unflinching. 'Forty.' The final crack of the whip echoes through the area, reverberating over and over, the finality only exaggerated by the noiselessness that followed.

'Does anyone else feel like joining the insurgent here?' The peacekeeper bellows like a bull. 'No? Then let this **be a lesson to you.'** He shouts out the last part, and wipes the blood off the pristine ice-white of his gloves as if it doesn't leave a stain.

From somewhere near the Justice building, she hears 'cut him out,' and a few whispered murmurs of 'oh gods,' and the speculation of whether he will live after a beating like that. The enthral that had held them before now has gone; the place buzzes back into life as peacekeepers grab Gale's limp form and haul him away.

From off the horizon, out of the mist between the alleyways, a woman approaches Prim. Slinky, she approaches slowly, and Prim can feel the viper-like gaze of the predatory woman on her. Whoever she is, she's from the Capitol- her eyes are tinted just a shade too green, too startlingly emerald, too similar to hellish pits of flame that dance in their own sociopathic sadism; just empty enough to stop looking human.

Like a thunderstorm on the horizon, she sweeps in, staring through Prim as if she's stripping the layers of the person away; like this woman can spy straight into the thoughts of those unlucky enough to be caught in her unflinching gaze. Teeth bared in a demonic smile, indefatigable in its threatening presence, she begins to speak. Her accent is cultured; upper-class, sophisticated, with a tone that cannot help but sound like she is moving in for the killing blow. The sort of action she would expect from a snake. It's incredibly apt- uncannily so. Prim actually wonders whether she's some form of snake-mutt, the sort that people told horror stories about.

'Hello Primrose.'

Prim tries to remember her manners, she really does, but there's something about this one that sets her teeth on edge. Maybe it's the fact that she clicks along, seemingly unharmed by the muck of Twelve; maybe it's that her pupils are a little too slit-like, too reptilian to be friendly. Either way, the woman isn't natural, and the animosity is immediately present before Prim can even pick out the manufactured Capitol attitude that reeks of an aura of privilege and superiority. Snake here is important, and whatever it is, the memory of Katniss flares up again with her immediate distaste for authority and rebellious nature. For quite possibly the first time in her life, Prim's upper lip curls into a vehement sneer.

'Good afternoon, _madam,_' Prim intones, the emphasis on the title, drawing it out until the noise she is making sounds caustic, sarcastic, so immensely out of character that she feels almost uncomfortable. But not quite, no; she's righteously angry, as she should well be, and there is nothing here to make her feel like this is in any way unjustified.

Katniss would be pleased.

'Miss Everdeen, I do believe that you know the young man being tried today. I also deem your medical aptitude enough to discern that he does not have long to live. And thus, I have a proposal to voice.'

'With all due respect, _madam_, I think you underestimate my skill-'

'My, my.' Snake cuts her off, curtly, without warning. 'Miss Everdeen, you are twelve years old. Not old enough to even begin to comprehend the scale of this. Now if you would please listen, for your sake as much as that of your friend, I have a proposition for you.'

There is a moment of silence as she takes this in- Prim knows as well as this woman does that Gale's not going to live for much longer. If someone had intervened, after ten strokes then maybe; maybe he'd just pull through with bruises and scars and half a chance of continuing on. But there's no hope for him now, not outside of a miracle. Not outside of Capitol medicine-

No. Oh no.

'You see, here at the Department for justice, we are having somewhat of a… shortage. Our peacekeeping force has become a little depleted of late. We're running a recruiting campaign, and, to put it frankly, we need to fill a quota. Now, we can promise this young man immediate, state-of-the-art medical treatment, complete with a stable job- all expenses inclusive- and regular pay packets home.'

Gale's mother, distraught, snotty tears streaking her face, moves over, and Prim already knows that she's lost this battle. Snake gives Mrs. Hawthorne a pointed look, self-assured and viciously victorious. 'I mean, only with your consent- this is, of course, completely voluntary. Alternatively, you could let him bleed out all over the square.' Snake shrugs; she couldn't care less. 'Your call.'

Prim storms off, disgusted. Obviously, there are ulterior motives at play. Snake has no intention to benefit anyone. She wouldn't care about him if it wasn't for her ; he's just a number to her, a blip on the radar, a 'quota' to fill. There's a tumultuous pit of writhing emotion vipering around inside her, and she slides down the side of a building, the dirt and lichen on the walls marring her tunic. It's the same one she was wearing when the peacekeeper attacked. All things considered, she's rather fond of it now; it makes her feel more powerful, more relevant. More like Katniss, she supposes.

She doesn't feel like Katniss now. Only, she feels like Prim: speechless, scared little Prim, who's lost too much, too quickly; who has been silenced one too many times; who's been through the onyx night of District Twelve and come out palliated and muzzled like a dog. This is what the Capitol has done to her. Dammit, no more.

And so she makes a break for it; runs home, trying to find her place, her spot, where she can scream with anguish in private, where nobody will hear her, nobody will judge. It gives her time to clear her head; or at least, to try. The steady heartbeat-rhythm of her feet pounding against the asphalt gives her focus, drive; she can move unhearing, unheard, unseeing and unseen. Soothing, it gives her time to think. To think on the rumours that have been spreading like wildfire, consuming every mouth in their path.

Rumours are rife in twelve. She's heard speculation of mutts and rebellion; of district Eight in flames, the factories being firebombed to keep the people compliant. There are a thousand and one of the seething whispers, gripping the society with promises of better lives. Always the craziest, the one without any feasible shred of truth, but being bantered around, yet always the same, always the story that the people are grasping hope from, clutching at straws. Impossible, they say, not a shred of truth, not a flicker of credibility, no, but the assertion of salvation is too much for a person to get curious. Most of them are ludicrous, but this one is getting the most of the attention. District Thirteen is alive and well.

Prim doesn't know what to believe; for the last few weeks, people have been brought in from outside the walls, punished for crossing the boundaries between districts. A federal offence here- inter-district communication is punishable by death. She's seen the Watchdogs, great brutish creatures that patrol the woods near where she collects her flowers. Sometimes, she catches the tortured eye of one of the beasts as it pads silently past. It's them. The wolf-mutts that brought Gale in; the Capitol's creations that dispatched Katniss. Those dogs are the reason that she'll never see either one again.

She makes a mental note to destroy the next Watchdog she sets eyes on.

Dark shadows hide in plain sight under her eyes; she's tired, seeing as balancing her job and the treatment of the ill all day has taken a lot out of her.

Anguished, she can only turn and bury her grief until something snaps herself out of her stupor. 'The flash of wings, Miss Primrose.' That's what Moses says, the old man, wizened and whiskered, who buys the milk from Prim's goat and spends his days singing on the street corners. As she passes through the narrow winding of the district's alleys, stumbling over her own feet, he catches her hand. Toothless and liver-spotted, he whistles softly, four notes in the Mockingjay call that they now use to incite riots. As Prim turns, he whispers to her, lisping slightly. 'Remember, Miss Primrose, the mockingjay in the footage. The same one white flicker in the corner of the screen. The lies they've been feeding us all these years.' He nods, clasping a single coin into her hands.

She scurries off. Closer inspection, through the blurred fug of tears, shows that it isn't a coin- though the right shape and dimensions, even colour, it's not an object of monetary value, more one of a desperate message. It's a dulled copper disk, one that fits snugly into the palm of her hand. And embossed into it is the symbol that has been used almost universally to signify rebellion and discord.

It's a Mockingjay.

**~.*.~**

**A/N: Right, I got very little feedback on this last chapter, so any reviews/follows would be incredibly benficial, and would make me update much faster. Motivation, guys; writing is _hard._**


End file.
